Paul Murdoch

Goodbye for now my trusted friend,
As you’ve moved on and I remain;
Alone, but still I have your likeness
Etched upon my soul.
...

Yes, you’ll live forever;
Yes, you’ll turn to dust.
If only you would just accept
Your unrequited lust.
...

Lie still, ye bracken-covered giants, that sleep below the soil,
You patient, silent warriors; lie still and wait a while.
Ignore the prickles on your hide and wait beneath the stars.
Till days grow long and man subsides, you’ll never journey far.
...

How can you be so selfish?
Would you ever fain to consider some other creature? Would you?
Is this art of altruism a passion or a curse?
I mean, do you like yourself?
...

The murmur stops then finds its feet
The constant drone of bees;
A tiny angel’s song breaks through,
And puts the world at ease.
...

To see a glimpse of god
That sets your soul alight;
The truth; complete, unqualified,
Perspective cannot fight.
...

The old piano’s rosewood face delights the dappled room;
It glows with winter’s wholesome warmth, and checks the musty gloom.
Its vibrant tone, now stilted some, still lures us to its side,
And though the keys are cracked and worn, we cannot shun or chide.
...

A tiny speck of shining black I sway on
Grasses, brace myself to bracken winds
That dance their trails between my prey.
...

Lichen dusted bows stoop down to brave the wash;
Infused with mossy rootlets of Larch and Birch and Ash.
The chill of dawn is sharpened and icy light drawn down,
Beneath the winding Ivy, and Holly’s jagged crown.
...

The rhythm of the greylag skies is lessened in its wake,
The Celtic bell of bronze that sang so pure.
Its plaintive tone filled pinewood glens
And smeared the blackbird’s song.
...

A twisted stem, a battered bow
Unhinged by vengeance, here and now.
The view; the sunlight; blocked, defiled
By leaf and branch; their tempers riled.
...

The gentle burn that gurgles past,
The slush and slosh of brackish trails
That once was winter snow.
Its peaty depths as dark as any starless night
...

Too polite to tilt the glass or
Flick accusing fingers high.
We smile and fain a petulant
Pose, Ignored by phantoms starched and pale.
...

Shadows race over this canopy of light
As sandy loams shift to the rhythm of naked waves.

Like pumas-stone lanterns, the skeletons of creation litter the depths.
...

Their hearts race on as darkness still entwines the Christmas dawn,
The bed clothes fall and tiny yelps of joy announce the morn.
No time to yawn, or stretch or groan; no time to check the clock,
As stocking yarn is stretched and teased, we hear a plaintive knock.
...

The truth is tainted here and now,
With angel’s wings that bend and bow;
To tales of earthly triumphs won
Beneath the moon and stars and sun.
...

Temptation laced with promises,
We race toward the tomb;
Dependant on the memory,
Of grape, and vine, and womb.
...

Unaware of hooks and knives that cut beneath the skin
The guardian of the forest protects all life within.
Hold fast ye barricades of life and fight the evil curse,
That blurs the fragile margins between the gold and rust.
...

The hickory beams hang heavy, as vermin creep around.
As candlelight dies down and flickers gently o’er the ground;
A track, a sign, some shift of lace, should let us know they’re here.
But we are blind and deaf to those, which never disappear.
...

You’ll deny me someday,
But that’s just fine, you’ll see.
Ashamed of one another,
Is just how it should be.
...